Nightmare: A Tale for an Autumn Evening
After a Print by George Cruikshank
It was a gusty night,
With the wind booming, and swooping,
Looping round corners,
Sliding over the cobble-stones,
Whipping and veering,
And careering over the roofs
Like a thousand clattering horses.
Mr. Spruggins had been dining in the city,
Mr. Spruggins was none too steady in his gait,
And the wind played ball with Mr. Spruggins
And laughed as it whistled past him.
It rolled him along the street,
With his little feet pit-a-patting on the flags of the sidewalk,
And his muffler and his coat-tails blown straight out behind him.
It bumped him against area railings,
And chuckled in his ear when he said 'Ouch!'
Sometimes it lifted him clear off his little patting feet
And bore him in triumph over three grey flagstones and a quarter.
The moon dodged in and out of clouds, winking.
It was all very unpleasant for Mr. Spruggins,
And when the wind flung him hard against his own front door
It was a relief,
Although the breath was quite knocked out of him.
The gas-lamp in front of the house flared up,
And the keyhole was as big as a barn door;
The gas-lamp flickered away to a sputtering blue star,
And the keyhole went out with it.
Such a stabbing, and jabbing,
And sticking, and picking,
And poking, and pushing, and prying
With that key;
And there is no denying that Mr. Spruggins rapped out an oath or two,
Rub-a-dub-dubbing them out to a real snare-drum roll.
But the door opened at last,
And Mr. Spruggins blew through it into his own hall
And slammed the door to so hard
That the knocker banged five times before it stopped.
Mr. Spruggins struck a light and lit a candle,
And all the time the moon winked at him through the window.
'Why couldn't you find the keyhole, Spruggins?'
Taunted the wind.
'I can find the keyhole.'
And the wind, thin as a wire,
Darted in and seized the candle flame
And knocked it over to one side
And pummelled it down - down - down -!
But Mr. Spruggins held the candle so close that it singed his chin,
And ran and stumbled up the stairs in a surprisingly agile manner,
For the wind through the keyhole kept saying, 'Spruggins! Spruggins!'
behind him.
The fire in his bedroom burned brightly.
The room with its crimson bed and window curtains
Was as red and glowing as a carbuncle.
It was still and warm.
There was no wind here, for the windows were fastened;
And no moon,
For the curtains were drawn.
The candle flame stood up like a pointed pear
In a wide brass dish.
Mr. Spruggins sighed with content;
He was safe at home.
The fire glowed - red and yellow roses
In the black basket of the grate -
And the bed with its crimson hangings
Seemed a great peony,
Wide open and placid.
Mr. Spruggins slipped off his top-coat and his muffler.
He slipped off his bottle-green coat
And his flowered waistcoat.
He put on a flannel dressing-gown,
And tied a peaked night-cap under his chin.
He wound his large gold watch
And placed it under his pillow.
Then he tiptoed over to the window and pulled back the curtain.
There was the moon dodging in and out of the clouds;
But behind him was his quiet candle.
There was the wind whisking along the street.
The window rattled, but it was fastened.
Did the wind say, 'Spruggins'?
All Mr. Spruggins heard was 'S-s-s-s-s -'
Dying away down the street.
He dropped the curtain and got into bed.
Martha had been in the last thing with the warming-pan;
The bed was warm,
And Mr. Spruggins sank into feathers,
With the familiar ticking of his watch just under his head.
Mr. Spruggins dozed.
He had forgotten to put out the candle,
But it did not make much difference as the fire was so bright . . .
Too bright!
The red and yellow roses pricked his eyelids,
They scorched him back to consciousness.
He tried to shift his position;
He could not move.
Something weighed him down,
He could not breathe.
He was gasping,
Pinned down and suffocating.
He opened his eyes.
The curtains of the window were flung back,
The fire and the candle were out,
And the room was filled with green moonlight.
And pressed against the window-pane
Was a wide, round face,
Winking - winking -
Solemnly dropping one eyelid after the other.
Tick - tock - went the watch under his pillow,
Wink - wink - went the face at the window.
It was not the fire roses which had pricked him,
It was the winking eyes.
Mr. Spruggins tried to bounce up;
He could not, because -
His heart flapped up into his mouth
And fell back dead.
On his chest was a fat pink pig,
On the pig a blackamoor
With a ten pound weight for a cap.
His mustachios kept curling up and down like angry snakes,
And his eyes rolled round and round,
With the pupils coming into sight, and disappearing,
And appearing again on the other side.
The holsters at his saddle-bow were two port bottles,
And a curved table-knife hung at his belt for a scimitar,
While a fork and a keg of spirits were strapped to the saddle behind.
He dug his spurs into the pig,
Which trampled and snorted,
And stamped its cloven feet deeper into Mr. Spruggins.
Then the green light on the floor began to undulate.
It heaved and hollowed,
It rose like a tide,
Sea-green,
Full of claws and scales
And wriggles.
The air above his bed began to move;
It weighed over him
In a mass of draggled feathers.
Not one lifted to stir the air.
They drooped and dripped
With a smell of port wine and brandy,
Closing down, slowly,
Trickling drops on the bed-quilt.
Suddenly the window fell in with a great scatter of glass,
And the moon burst into the room,
Sizzling - 'S-s-s-s-s - Spruggins! Spruggins!'
It rolled toward him,
A green ball of flame,
With two eyes in the center,
A red eye and a yellow eye,
Dropping their lids slowly,
One after the other.
Mr. Spruggins tried to scream,
But the blackamoor
Leapt off his pig
With a cry,
Drew his scimitar,
And plunged it into Mr. Spruggins's mouth.
Mr. Spruggins got up in the cold dawn
And remade the fire.
Then he crept back to bed
By the light which seeped in under the window curtains,
And lay there, shivering,
While the bells of St. George the Martyr chimed the quarter after seven.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
A Candle In The Window
Written by susan longacre, walt aldridge, and gary baker
Theres a road that I remember leading to a special place
Where the door was always open to a smiling face
Theres a picture on the mantle of a boy that looks like me
Its always the same, theres a stocking with my name
And a candle in the window, a flame against the night
Theres a candle in the window, its like gods perfect light
It dont take a lot of money to know what riches are
Just a candle in the window
Maybe its just wishful thiking I can hear the sleigh bells ring
Almost taste teh pie shes baking, its christmas eve
And theres a candle in the window, a flame against the night
The candle in the window, its like gods perfect light
It dont take a lot of money to know what riches are
Just a candle in the window and christmas in your heart
Wherever the years may take me no matter how far I go
Theres going to be a candle burning, its always nice to know
It dont take a lot of money to know what riches are
Just a candle in the window and christmas in your heart
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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i do beleive in God
there may be doubts
like pebbles along the path towards a house
there may be darkness
at the end of day
but there is still a candle to light
a gas lamp by the side
of the door
outside the house covered by a glass
you see how even during the storm
through the window
transparent on the curtains
there is still this flickering light
despite the wind
even in my sleep my nightmares
faith still glistens
like a distant star
amen.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fiery Lover
I watch a candle burns
Its fire was quietly molded
And the wind was the artist.
The fire forms into a rose
I touch the candle’s fire
I felt the fire pushes me away
Contrary from what it shows
Its looks deceives me, totally
The wind blew the candle
The fire struggle to stay
The wind pushes it away
Its beauty vanishes instantly
If only it was not hot
It would be in my hands
I would have mold
A beauty impossible to hold
It had trusted the wind
Only wind was able to touch
I was forbidden to hold
All I can do is to watch
If only it had trusted me
It would be a different story
I had offered my hands
Though I know it’ll be burned
My hand’s not soft as a wind
It’s not as tender at it seems
But at least my hands
Are connected to a heart
poem by John Anthony Maligro
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I'm The Pied Piper
As soon as he turned it on
The wind outside of his room
Stirred up for a few seconds
He thought to himself
"i'll climb out my window
And go sit out there with my radio"
Out the window he went
Sitting against a small stump
Behind some flowerbeds
The light from his bedroom window he could still see
The music of bach was playing
After a while it began to sound distant
As the young prince gazed at this radio on his knee
The music was floating away from his hearing
What could be happening
He took it off of his knee
And put the radio to his ear
Nothing happened
Then the transistor left his hands
And was floating in the mid-air
Two feet off the ground
As the prince laughed
It suddenly turned around
And it was light green phosphourous in color
Dancing back and forth
The magic transistor
Started moving down his path
He could hear the sound out
Like nothing he had ever heard before
The trees were getting closer together
And flowers glowed with tinges of magic light
As he followed thinking to himself
"what's going on?"
The transistor lifted slowly
Up to the top of a little tree
And sat there
While it slowly became louder
To where the prince could hear it clearly
Fireflies shot across the path in front of the prince
He turned around and couldn't see the light from his window
There he was watching all alone all by himself
He got a hunch to get back to his room
And he turned and ran right back
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Little Sister
The wind knocks at the window,
And my heart is full of fear,
For I know when it is calling
That some evil thing is near.
It whispers in the chimney,
And I strike the log to flame,
Lest it come down and take me
To the land that hath no name.
For once I had a sister,
Who now am left alone,
And here we sat together,
When the wind did sigh and moan.
There came a gentle knocking
Quick and sudden at the door,
And my sister hushed my terror,
Saying, ''Tis the wind, a-stór!'
She took my arms from round her,
She kissed me, cheek and chin,
But I cried, 'Oh, little sister,
Do not let the robber in!'
She rose up from me laughing,
But her face was strange and white,
And she opened wide the window,
Looking long into the night.
And I said, 'Oh, little sister,
There is on your cheek a tear!'
''Tis but the rain,' she whispered;
But my heart was full of fear.
And I said, 'Oh, little sister,
There's a hand upon the door.'
Soft she chid me from my crying,
Saying, ''Tis the wind, a-stór.'
And turning from me smiling,
She took down the bar and chain,
But her cheek was like the lily
As she went into the rain.
And I said, 'Oh, little sister,
Will you then return no more?'
But I only heard the pushing
Of the wind upon the door.
Long I cried, 'Oh, little sister,
Will you soon come back again?'
But I only heard the beating
Of the storm upon the pane.
Now my mother sits in sorrow,
Weeping all the livelong day;
And I think she dreads the robber
Who did take her child away.
So I put up bar and shutter
When the wind goes howling by,
For I know when it comes knocking
That some evil thing is nigh.
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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Old Susan
When Susan's work was done, she'd sit
With one fat guttering candle lit,
And window opened wide to win
The sweet night air to enter in;
There, with a thumb to keep her place
She'd read, with stern and wrinkled face.
Her mild eyes gliding very slow
Across the letters to and fro,
While wagged the guttering candle flame
In the wind that through the window came.
And sometimes in the silence she
Would mumble a sentence audibly,
Or shake her head as if to say,
"You silly souls, to act this way!"
And never a sound from night I'd hear,
Unless some far-off cock crowed clear;
Or her old shuffling thumb should turn
Another page; and rapt and stern,
Through her great glasses bent on me,
She'd glance into reality;
And shake her round old silvery head,
With--"You!--I thought you was in bed!"--
Only to tilt her book again,
And rooted in Romance remain.
poem by Walter de la Mare
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Parisian girl
Rattle shake, in her feet crawling like a tail.
O f a princess squalor, that fire made to burn.
Tell me the story o mon amour,
Of this Parisian girl.
She was sit outside the cafe, with her naked crossed legs.
Her hair, black gold veils, obscure of mysterious where.
The lips like a fortune teller sphere.
Confine her voice, capturing the souls
Like mermaid enchanting sailors' pants.
Her dock breasts I adore.
I watch her, like the stars, million times, like the moon far light.
Where from her eyes, I hide, shy,
Seek my heart, dream my eyes, to make her love me, day and night.
Bonsoir, the cat, on the roofs stretch his fur,
Walking on the thin wall, praising her with cuddling words.
Linen wraps the morning, undone by the passion.
Consume by her caress until the moon shine.
Where the mill is blown by the wind.
The light through the window at midnight consumes.
Passion of a candle, the flame defuses the room.
Of a Parisian night bloom.
poem by Luca Menin
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The Room
(chris waters/tom shapiro)
When I pull in the drive where your car used to be
It doesnt hurt me like it used to
I can walk through the door, and not wonder anymore
Where you are, like I used to
I can go down the hall, see the pictures on the wall
And not miss you
But I just cant bring myself to go into..
The room
Where I spent every night with you
And the light of the moon
Came through the window
And I held you
We were so close
And its just too soon
For me to go into the room
Id remember too much if I opened that door
And Im not sure if I could face it
The beds emptiness would remind me youre with
Someone else, and I couldnt take it
So, I sleep on the couch in our living room now
Since our love died
cause Im still not ready yet to go inside...
The room
Where I spent every night with you
And the light of the moon
Came through the window
And I held you
We were so close
And its just too soon
For me to go into the room
Where the light of the moon
Came through the window
And I held you
We were so close
And its just too soon
For me to go into the room
song performed by by Wade Hayes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Celia
Cherry, cherry,
glowing on the hearth,
bright red cherry….
When you try to pick up cherry
Celia’s shriek
sticks in you like a pin.
When God throws hailstones
you cuddle in Celia’s shawl
and press your feet on her belly
high up like a stool.
When Celia makes umbrella of her hand.
Rain falls through
big pink spokes of her fingers.
When wind blows Celia’s gown up off her legs
she runs under pillars of the bank—
great round pillars of the bank
have on white stockings too.
Celia says my father
will bring me a golden bowl.
When I think of my father
I cannot see him
for the big yellow bowl
like the moon with two handles
he carries in front of him.
Grandpa, grandpa…
(Light all about you…
ginger… pouring out of green jars…)
You don’t believe he has gone away and left his great coat…
so you pretend… you see his face up in the ceiling.
When you clap your hands and cry, grandpa, grandpa, grandpa,
Celia crosses herself.
It isn’t a dream….
It comes again and again….
You hear ivy crying on steeples
the flames haven’t caught yet
and images screaming
when they see red light on the lilies
on the stained glass window of St. Joseph.
The girl with the black eyes holds you tight,
and you run… and run
past the wild, wild towers…
and trees in the gardens tugging at their feet
and little frightened dolls
shut up in the shops
crying… and crying… because no one stops…
you spin like a penny thrown out in the street.
Then the man clutches her by the hair….
He always clutches her by the hair….
His eyes stick out like spears.
You see her pulled-back face
and her black, black eyes
lit up by the glare….
Then everything goes out.
Please God, don’t let me dream any more
of the girl with the black, black eyes.
Celia’s shadow rocks and rocks…
and mama’s eyes stare out of the pillow
as though she had gone away
and the night had come in her place
as it comes in empty rooms…
you can’t bear it—
the night threshing about
and lashing its tail on its sides
as bold as a wolf that isn’t afraid—
and you scream at her face, that is white as a stone on a grave
and pull it around to the light,
till the night draws backward… the night that walks alone
and goes away without end.
Mama says, I am cold, Betty, and shivers.
Celia tucks the quilt about her feet,
but I run for my little red cloak
because red is hot like fire.
I wish Celia
could see the sea climb up on the sky
and slide off again…
…Celia saying
I’d beg the world with you….
Celia… holding on to the cab…
hands wrenched away…
wind in the masts… like Celia crying….
Celia never minded if you slapped her
when the comb made your hairs ache,
but though you rub your cheek against mama’s hand
she has not said darling since….
Now I will slap her again….
I will bite her hand till it bleeds.
It is cool by the port hole.
The wet rags of the wind
flap in your face.
poem by Lola Ridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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From the biography of an unknown woman: XL
Looking out through the window
She saw a sky of melancholy
In shades of ink-blue and black
In the ticking of the clock on the wall
She heard the loud and clear hollowness
Filling the empty room
Some stray memories sweet and bitter
Simply struggled like a flickering candle
Placed on the window sill
In the distant night is heard
Painful whining of dogs
As she struggled to close
The window against the blowing wind
13sep2010
14.14hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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No place for a courting-candle
A girl’s voice laughing softly
cuts through the night
and enters by the room’s window
and wide awake
I (six year old child) sneak out
to find the source of the excitement.
Gardiël studies with Martin
that boards with us
and both are matriculating
because he complains
that his eyes burn
from the old paraffin lamp
that gives light
at their farm house
where there’s no electricity.
A bright electric lamp
burns in the room
hanging ten centimetres
beneath the ceiling
and big moths
fly dark brown around it
caught in flight paths.
Another table lamp
throws a bright yellow glow
that brings heat in the chilly
highveld winter.
I see them through the window
drinking coffee and eating rusks,
before both of them
again turn pages in books
and crawl into the shelter of a bush
to stay hidden from them
and suddenly somebody moves
next to me
and I see her bend
to pickup small stones
that she throws lightly
against the room’s window.
The window opens wide
and I hear them talking softly
without hearing what they say
and the girl again laughs
before she walks to the front door
that opens noiselessly.
l’Envoi
It must have been only ten minutes
before uncle Hendrik (Gardiël’s dad)
comes running along,
open the garden gate with might
almost run the front door
out of its sockets
and with a walking stick in his hand
(that is stronger than a broom)
smashes out the light in the roof,
the table lamp
and the window
in Martin’s room
and I hear lashes
with thudding sounds
fall on both boys
and the girl
screaming hysterically
while she
also get lashed
and he shouts in anger
that this is no place
for a courting-candle.
[Reference: The word uncle used here out of respect and local custom and not to point out family relationship.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Paper Windmill
The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane and looked out
at the bright sunshiny morning. The cobble-stones of the square
glistened like mica. In the trees, a breeze danced and pranced,
and shook drops of sunlight like falling golden coins into the brown water
of the canal. Down stream slowly drifted a long string of galliots
piled with crimson cheeses. The little boy thought they looked as if
they were roc's eggs, blocks of big ruby eggs. He said, 'Oh!' with delight,
and pressed against the window with all his might.
The golden cock on the top of the `Stadhuis' gleamed. His beak was open
like a pair of scissors and a narrow piece of blue sky was wedged in it.
'Cock-a-doodle-do,' cried the little boy. 'Can't you hear me
through the window, Gold Cocky? Cock-a-doodle-do! You should crow
when you see the eggs of your cousin, the great roc.' But the golden cock
stood stock still, with his fine tail blowing in the wind.
He could not understand the little boy, for he said 'Cocorico'
when he said anything. But he was hung in the air to swing, not to sing.
His eyes glittered to the bright West wind, and the crimson cheeses
drifted away down the canal.
It was very dull there in the big room. Outside in the square, the wind
was playing tag with some fallen leaves. A man passed, with a dogcart
beside him full of smart, new milkcans. They rattled out a gay tune:
'Tiddity-tum-ti-ti. Have some milk for your tea. Cream for your coffee
to drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white,'
and the man's sabots beat an accompaniment: 'Plop! trop! milk for your tea.
Plop! trop! drink it to-night.' It was very pleasant out there,
but it was lonely here in the big room. The little boy gulped at a tear.
It was queer how dull all his toys were. They were so still.
Nothing was still in the square. If he took his eyes away a moment
it had changed. The milkman had disappeared round the corner,
there was only an old woman with a basket of green stuff on her head,
picking her way over the shiny stones. But the wind pulled the leaves
in the basket this way and that, and displayed them to beautiful advantage.
The sun patted them condescendingly on their flat surfaces, and they seemed
sprinkled with silver. The little boy sighed as he looked at his disordered
toys on the floor. They were motionless, and their colours were dull.
The dark wainscoting absorbed the sun. There was none left for toys.
The square was quite empty now. Only the wind ran round and round it,
spinning. Away over in the corner where a street opened into the square,
the wind had stopped. Stopped running, that is, for it never
stopped spinning. It whirred, and whirled, and gyrated, and turned.
It burned like a great coloured sun. It hummed, and buzzed, and sparked,
and darted. There were flashes of blue, and long smearing lines of saffron,
and quick jabs of green. And over it all was a sheen like a myriad
cut diamonds. Round and round it went, the huge wind-wheel,
and the little boy's head reeled with watching it. The whole square
was filled with its rays, blazing and leaping round after one another,
faster and faster. The little boy could not speak, he could only gaze,
staring in amaze.
The wind-wheel was coming down the square. Nearer and nearer it came,
a great disk of spinning flame. It was opposite the window now,
and the little boy could see it plainly, but it was something more
than the wind which he saw. A man was carrying a huge fan-shaped frame
on his shoulder, and stuck in it were many little painted paper windmills,
each one scurrying round in the breeze. They were bright and beautiful,
and the sight was one to please anybody, and how much more a little boy
who had only stupid, motionless toys to enjoy.
The little boy clapped his hands, and his eyes danced and whizzed,
for the circling windmills made him dizzy. Closer and closer
came the windmill man, and held up his big fan to the little boy
in the window of the Ambassador's house. Only a pane of glass
between the boy and the windmills. They slid round before his eyes
in rapidly revolving splendour. There were wheels and wheels of colours -
big, little, thick, thin - all one clear, perfect spin. The windmill vendor
dipped and raised them again, and the little boy's face was glued
to the window-pane. Oh! What a glorious, wonderful plaything!
Rings and rings of windy colour always moving! How had any one ever preferred
those other toys which never stirred. 'Nursie, come quickly. Look!
I want a windmill. See! It is never still. You will buy me one, won't you?
I want that silver one, with the big ring of blue.'
So a servant was sent to buy that one: silver, ringed with blue,
and smartly it twirled about in the servant's hands as he stood a moment
to pay the vendor. Then he entered the house, and in another minute
he was standing in the nursery door, with some crumpled paper on the end
of a stick which he held out to the little boy. 'But I wanted a windmill
which went round,' cried the little boy. 'That is the one you asked for,
Master Charles,' Nursie was a bit impatient, she had mending to do.
'See, it is silver, and here is the blue.' 'But it is only a blue streak,'
sobbed the little boy. 'I wanted a blue ring, and this silver
doesn't sparkle.' 'Well, Master Charles, that is what you wanted,
now run away and play with it, for I am very busy.'
The little boy hid his tears against the friendly window-pane. On the floor
lay the motionless, crumpled bit of paper on the end of its stick.
But far away across the square was the windmill vendor, with his big wheel
of whirring splendour. It spun round in a blaze like a whirling rainbow,
and the sun gleamed upon it, and the wind whipped it, until it seemed
a maze of spattering diamonds. 'Cocorico!' crowed the golden cock
on the top of the `Stadhuis'. 'That is something worth crowing for.'
But the little boy did not hear him, he was sobbing over the crumpled
bit of paper on the floor.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Forcing The Window To Flow
At the window, rain drives
Drizzles and drizzles glow and go
Pushing and loosing the window to and fro
And some-one asked, who is at the window?
Pushing and pushing the window and dash?
In the dark of the night free and roll
Going for the next fresh candle of the day
At the window a hand goes and more, who is at the window?
She cried and roared the mall
And forced the window and banged and go.
poem by Paul Mwenelupembe
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At The Window
My choking breath, silent run between the window
Frames of wild chestnuts' trees.
Murmurs of warm sheets cast away my body.
Balcony, sprout seeds of transparent fluid.
Mute you show me the world, so that I can make the tree sing.
And the birds' blow by the wind.
It exalted my desire, which cannot be neither confined nor not die.
Like shining night, reflected on cats' eyes.
Every time the moon shine.
Voices of flame, blow by the wind
Against the window spiffier, last fire soon death adores.
Of my breath, last sigh.
I shall disappear from the reflection of a sterile glass.
Contemplate with my sight the blue sky, and let it die.
poem by Luca Menin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Alley
Because you are four years old
the candle is all dressed up in a new frill.
And stars nod to you through the hole in the curtain,
(except the big stiff planets
too fat to move about much,)
and you curtsey back to the stars
when no one is looking.
You feel sorry for the poor wooden chair
that knows it isn’t nice to sit on,
and no one is sad but mama.
You don’t like mama to be sad
when you are four years old,
so you pretend
you like the bitter gold-pale tea—
you pretend
if you don’t drink it up pretty quick
a little gold-fish
will think it is a pond
and come and get born in it.
It’s hot in our street
and the breeze is a dirty little broom
that sweeps dust into our room
and bits of paper out of the alley.
You are not let to play
with the children in the alley
But you must be very polite—
so you pass them and say good day
and when they fling banana skins
you fling them back again.
There is no one to play with
and the flies on the window
buzz and buzz…
…you can pull out their legs
and stick pins in their bodies
but still they buzz…
and mama says:
When Nero was a little boy
he caught flies on his mama’s window
and pulled out their legs
and stuck pins in their bodies
and nobody loved him.
Buzz, blue-bellied flies—
buzz, nasty black wheel
of mama’s machine—
you are the biggest fly of all—
you have the loudest buzz.
I hear you at dawn before the locusts.
But I like the picture of the Flood
and the little babies getting drowned….
If I were there I would save them,
but as I can’t save them
I like to watch them
getting drowned.
When mama buys of Ling Ho,
he smiles very wide
and picks her the largest loquots.
The greens-man gave her a cabbage
and she held it against her black bodice
and said what a beautiful green it was
and put it on the table
as though it had been a flower.
But next day we boiled and ate it with salt.
It was our dinner.
Christmas day
I found Janie on my pillow.
Janie is made of rubber.
Her red and blue jacket won’t come off.
Christmas dinner was green and white
chicken and lettuce and peas
and drops of oil on the salad
smiley and full of light
like the gold on the lady’s teeth.
But mama said politely
Thank you, we are dining out.
She wouldn’t let you take one pea
to put in the hole where the whistle was
at the back of Janie’s head,
so Janie should have some dinner
So you went to the park with biscuits
and black tea in a bottle.
You feel very sad
when you climb on the fence
to watch mama out of sight.
The women in the alley
poke their heads out of doorways
and watch her too.
You know her
by the way she holds her shoulders
till she is only a speck
in a chain of specks—
till she is swallowed up.
But suppose
that day after day
you were to watch for her face
and it didn’t come back?
Suppose
it were to drop out of the string of white faces
like the pearl out of my chain
I never found again?
Mabel minds you while mama is out,
she washes while she sings
Three blind mice!
they all run away from the farmer’s wife
who cut off their tails
with a carving knife—
Wind blows out Mabel’s sheets,
way you blow in a bag before you burst it.
Wind has a soapy smell.
It’s heavier’n sun
that lies all over you without any weight
and makes you feel happy
and crinkly like bubbling water.
There’s no sun on the empty house—
sly-looking house—
you can’t see in its windows
that watch you out of their corners.
Perhaps there’s a big spider there
spinning gray threads over the windows
till they look like dead people’s faces….
Jimmie says:
Jimmie’s hair is white as a white mouse.
His lashes are gold as mama’s wedding ring
and his mouth feels cool and smooth
like a flower wet with rain.
You wouldn’t believe Jimmie was different…
till he showed you….
Blind wet sheets
flapping on the lines…
sun in your eyes,
dark gold sun
full of little black spots,
you have to blink and blink…
round eyes of Jimmie….
Jimmie’s blue jumper…
blue shadow of wall…
all the world holding still
as when a clock stops…
streets still… people still…
no streets… no people…
only sky and wall…
sun glaring bright as God
down at you and Jimmie…
shadow like a purple cloth
trailing off the wall…
Wild wet sheets
flapping in the wind…
big slippered feet flapping too…
big-balloon-face
rushing up the alley…
houses closing up again…
windows looking round…
… Mabel pulls you in the gate and shakes you
and tells you not to tell your mama…
And you wonder
if God has spoiled Jimmie.
poem by Lola Ridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Moths
The leaded window opened
To move the dancing candle flame
And the first moths of summer
Suicidal came.
And a new breeze chattered
In its may-bud tenderness ---
Sending water-lillies sailing
As she turned to get undressed.
And the long night awakened
And we soared on powdered wings ---
Circling our tomorrows
In the wary month of spring.
Chasing shadows slipping
In a magic lantern slide ---
Creatures of the candle
On a night-light-ride.
Dipping and weaving --- flutter
Through the golden needles eye
In our haystack madness. butterfly-stroking
On a spring-tide high.
Lifes too long (as the lemming said)
As the candle burned and the moths were wed.
And well all burn together as the wick grows higher ---
Before the candles dead.
The leaded window opened
To move the dancing candle flame.
And the first moths of summer
Suicidal came
To join in the worship
Of the light that never dies
In a moments reflection
Of two moths spinning in her eyes.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Absence
My shadow --
I woke to a wind swirling the curtains light and dark
and the birds twittering on the roofs, I lay cold
in the early light in my room high over London.
What fear was it that made the wind sound like a fire
so that I got up and looked out half-asleep
at the calm rows of street-lights fading far below?
Without fire
Only the wind blew.
But in the dream I woke from, you
came running through the traffic, tugging me, clinging
to my elbow, your eyes spoke
what I could not grasp --
Nothing, if you were here!
The wind of the early quiet
merges slowly now with a thousand rolling wheels.
The lights are out, the air is loud.
It is an ordinary January day.
My shadow, do you hear the streets?
Are you at my heels? Are you here?
And I throw back the sheets.
Anonymous Submission
poem by Edwin Morgan
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The Bridge
i stared across the bridge,
lantern held high...
searching the trees and
the shadows for a sign.
the surging river below
made my heart stamp its feet;
the wind blew, almost moaned,
the bridge groaned as it swayed.
taking off my boots,
i crossed barefooted and sure.
looking down, i could not see rocks,
but i knew they were there...
on the other side the damp dirt
felt good to my feet...
i followed the path down,
ever down... a wolf howled!
i came to a clearing,
made out the form of your hut...
dark and still, almost a womb.
i made my way to the door,
my trembling hand on the knob...
unlocked, the door opened.
staring around the darkened room,
nothing moved, only a lone candle
on the table beside the bed.
i could feel the stare
of your hungry eyes...
heard you whisper, 'come here! '
a thousand battles,
and journeys untold,
forgotten in the warmth
of your flesh...
new stars formed
in a limitless sky,
fell and shattered
as we loved!
the groan of the earth,
the moan of the wind,
the fury of storms unleashed.
holding back, holding back,
till there was no return...
dissolving into the fire
of your pulsing depths...
and all of life, finished!
with the morning light,
i found myself alone...
got up and dressed
with the ache and the taste...
as i left the hut,
i turned to see the owl...
set my chin, braced my mind,
and walked to face the coming snow!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Could It Be The Wind? (For Dave)
is it then the wind,
that rattles the pane?
causing the candle to flicker,
the curtains to walk?
could it be the wind,
making shapes of shadow?
and that long shaking moan
you feel in your bones?
the wind that whispers
in voices almost remembered.
that tugs at the door
to your forbidden room?
that taste of blackness
from an empty cup?
could it be the wind,
or something more?
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Burn That Candle
(winfield scott)
Keep that candle burnin bright, mama
Ill be kind of late tonight, mama
Theres a yellow moon above me, mama
Shinin on the one I love, mama
Burn that candle
Night and day
Burn that candle
Honey light our way
Keep that doorway open wide
Until we come slowly strollin side by side
While that candles shinin high, mama
Ill be with my sugar pie, mama
Well be comin home you know and mama
Lookin for that candle glowin, mama
After we have had the wedding, mama
To that candle well be headin, mama
So before were winin and dinin, mama
Keep that candle light a-shinin, mama
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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